Open Heavens in Lowell City
or the exposed cogs of the sky's violent machinery,
or my black palm cigarette fingers grasping for hidden change,
but gathering only guitar picks.
With tattered shorts,
with anger or sleep,
with chemical vigilance,
and eyes like brilliant halogen bulbs.
All of this in your irises,
(more like orchids)
and I think maybe
you are drowning.